


Interludes: Set 1

by Emmalyn, FeatherWriter



Series: The Sydney Scroungers [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Sydney Scroungers
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Interlude, Roleplaying Character, Roleplaying Transcript
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmalyn/pseuds/Emmalyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatherWriter/pseuds/FeatherWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four character backstory interludes between the main acts. Eleanor's history, Seiko and Miranda's first meeting, Sylvie's last day in the piloting program, and a short comic about the trials of sharing a bathroom with a new roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eleanor's Backstory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was written by Emmalyn! The portrait of Eleanor was drawn by Ellie!

Eleanor is four years old and the happiest little girl in the world. Mommy travels a lot and takes a lot of pictures that get printed in the newspaper. Daddy says that’s a good thing. Eleanor misses her Mommy, but her Mommy and Daddy are happy together, and they love her, and that makes her happy, too.

\- - -

Seven-year-old Eleanor gets involved in too many fights. She doesn’t start them, she doesn’t even throw any punches, but she gets in trouble anyway! It’s not fair, but at least she keeps some of the littlest kids in her class from getting picked on too much. The teachers on the playground don’t really see what’s going on a lot of the time, so Eleanor just steps in the middle of fights and glares at the bad kid until they stop trying to get around her. It works pretty well, she thinks.

Mommy and Daddy pick her up early from school one day. Eleanor is sporting a blackened eye and a swollen cheek, and sure she’s bruised and bloodied but she’s grinning like a fool. “I made friends with Molly and Daniel today!” she says through the blood on her teeth. “They used to hate each other, but I told Molly to be nice and I think we’ll probably play together tomorrow. Can we go to the beach? Please?”

Mommy sighs, but Daddy smiles and nods, and Eleanor swells with pride and thinks that no punches can hurt her as long as they all have each other.

\- - -

At twelve, Eleanor wishes she were less gangly and more curvy, tries to will her hair to be longer and straighter, wants to be prettier, and is overall just really confused with what her body is doing most of the time. She doesn’t have many friends, but the few she has, she treasures.

There’s a boy in her class that she likes. His name is Luke. Luke’s about a foot shorter than her, and much much paler, and he likes to read when Eleanor would rather play basketball. But that’s okay, she likes him anyway. He doesn’t tease her about how a blush looks on her dark skin, or her short hair (there was a Gum Incident), or the way she trips over her own feet sometimes.

A week before summer break, she gathers up the courage and corners him at recess. She tells him she’d like to hang out that weekend, just the two of them. They could play video games at her house. Luke’s answering smile is like the sun, and later that day they hold hands on the bus ride home.

Mom holds a family meeting that night, and says that she and Dad have decided to move that summer, to New York. It’s for her job.

Eleanor says nothing, but pummels her bedding and screams into a pillow until she falls asleep, hours later.

\- - -

Fifteen is not the easiest age to be, not for anybody. For Eleanor, it means sitting silently in the back of boring classes, trying not to fall asleep while she doodles spirals in the margins of her notebooks. She wishes she were back in San Francisco. At least she had friends there. And she knew the area like the back of her hand. Here, the air is thick with smog, but it’s a  _different_  smog, and she doesn’t  _like_  it, okay?

The only class she finds remotely interesting is Psychology. The teacher calls her “Ms. Taylor” instead of Eleanor, like she’s an adult who matters, and he doesn’t mind if she’s a bit sarcastic in her term papers (as long as she cites her sources). He also doesn’t ask questions when she stays late to argue a point with a classmate. Her passion is admirable, he says to her one day.

Sure, Eleanor goes home nearly every afternoon to a quiet house, her mom out of the country and her dad off working who-knows-where, but at least she has her books. It’s worse on the days when both Mom and Dad are home. She can’t concentrate on reading with all the yelling and the tension and the childish refusals to talk to anyone but her in the background. There’s no way she’s going to be a mediator between her own _parents_. They need to sort out their own issues, because God knows Eleanor’s dealing with hers.

And if Mom starts taking more and more overseas photo gigs for longer and longer stretches, well, neither Eleanor nor her father seem to care.

\- - -

When she’s seventeen, she thinks that her life cannot possibly get any worse. In August, 2013, a 7.1 magnitude earthquake levels her old neighborhood. Eleanor watches the scene unfold on TV, staring blankly at the screen as the monster they call Trespasser crushes her childhood into so many shards of glass and metal.

It takes six days for the government to annihilate the hideous creature with nuclear warheads, and during those six days she barely eats, barely sleeps, barely breathes. Dad sits next to her for most of the time, but she doesn’t really remember if he said anything, or even if he was really there at all. Mom’s in Europe on business. The home phone rings, but no one answers it.

Eleanor doesn’t cry. There’s no room for tears in all her emptiness and disbelief.

\- - -

Eleanor turns eighteen with no fanfare. Her mother isn’t home for her birthday, but she just can’t get up the energy to care. She’s been getting through her classes like clockwork, because they distract her, and because she doesn’t know what else to do. ( _I’m still grieving,_ she thinks.  _It’s okay to feel like this._ The litany almost helps.)

Three days after her birthday, her mother comes home, all sweetness and smiles. She hugs Eleanor tightly and doesn’t seem to notice that Eleanor doesn’t return the gesture with much enthusiasm. She calls Dad “darling” again, kisses him on the cheek, waltzes around the house in bright colors. She brings life back with her in a way that Eleanor had forgotten she missed. The house is full of love again.

A few months later, Mother and Dad decide to take a vacation together, “like old times.” They leave for a ritzy event in Hong Kong a week before Eleanor’s high school graduation.

The night of the ceremony rolls around. Finding her psych teacher and a couple of friends in the crowd, Eleanor smiles, and waves, and doesn’t cry.

\- - -

Mother met with an accident in Hong Kong, her father explains through his tears. The summer is a dangerous time, with tourists driving around so recklessly. He and Mother had been on a pedestrian walkway when she was hit. The doctors say she died instantly.

Eleanor absorbs the news with a blank stare and a tiny nod. She stares at the ceiling all night, and in the morning tells her father of her plans: she’s moving to Canberra to go to college, and to help with the war effort. They gave her a scholarship in psychology. She can make a difference there, Eleanor explains to him, dry-eyed. They  _need_  her.

Two weeks pass in a haze, as she packs her bags and tries to ignore her father’s late-night calls in Chinese, the crazed gleam in his eye, the unhappiness he buries under the suddenly manic work effort. Eleanor takes a taxi to the airport—she doesn’t trust her father to get her there on time, or at all.

Guilty dreams assail her throughout the twenty-hour flight, until she trembles with the effort to keep it all in. She could have stayed in New York, she knows, and attended a state school. But she lost her father and her mother at the same time. And she can’t go back to that house, or she’ll die too.

When she finally arrives at the University of Sydney, she stumbles into her single room and flops down on the rickety bed. There, she cries until she has no tears left.

\- - -

It’s not until years later that Eleanor gets a call from her father, in the middle of the night on a weekday. She picks up, though she’s unsure what to say, and says hello.

Father’s voice is hoarse, and he sounds like he’s still manic. Eleanor asks if he’s been seeing a psychiatrist. She’s been meeting with a school counselor, and it’s really helped her work through her emotions. A major in Psychology and Psychiatry isn’t far off for her, she thinks.

Her father ignores her and begins to ramble—he says something about an assembly, and then something about Judges. Is he talking about politics? Eleanor isn’t sure. She asks him to slow down, speak more clearly.

Then she wishes she hadn’t. ( _Hallowed come the Judges. Your mother never believed me. Don’t do what she did. She was punished. I don’t want to lose you, too, Eleanor. Come back. Hallowed come the Judges._ )

Eleanor hangs up the phone, tasting acid in the back of her throat. The next day, she throws the phone into a fountain and sends in an application to the Sydney PPDC.


	2. Sylvie Backstory: Piloting Academy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was written by FeatherWriter

**December 2, 2017**

Sylvie sits in the hard wooden chair outside the conference room in the Shatterdome, heels tapping against the floor nervously. The summons order in her hands is crumpled rather thoroughly at the sides where she’s been holding it too tightly.  _It’s just a summons,_ she tells herself.  _It’s probably nothing, just… a status report or a check-in or something. Nothing to worry about._

She can hear muffled voices behind the door talking. She can recognize a few of the training instructors’ voices, as well as that of the piloting program commander. There’s another cadet in there right now, speaking with them.  _See,_ she tells herself.  _You’re not the only one who got called. Maybe everyone’s having meetings and you just didn’t hear the memo._

After a few minutes, the voices stop and the door opens. Sylvie looks up to see who it is, only to be disappointed. She scowls as she recognizes him and turns away again, folding her arms across her chest. Dmitry Yegorov. Of all the people to catch her waiting outside the conference room…

Yegorov swaggers out into the hallway, his face splitting into a wicked grin when he notices her. “What ‘cha doing out here, Mansen? They finally decide to kick your sorry ass out of the program?”

She glares at him. “Fuck off, Yegorov. You got called in too.”

He laughs at her, the sound so grating that she has to hold herself back from punching him right there and then. “I just had a blip on one of my mental aptitude tests that they wanted to discuss with me,” he says. “Progress report and all that. I’ll be fine. You on the other hand… I think we both know  _you’re_  here because everyone’s finally realized you don’t have what it takes.”

She stands up, standing toe to toe with him. She’s glad they’re about the same height at least; it’s just not the same trying to glare threateningly at someone who towers over you. “You don’t even come close to matching my sim scores and we both know I could kick your ass without even breaking a sweat,” she hisses. “You wouldn’t last a minute in the ring with me.”

“Yeah, but you couldn’t last half that in my head,” he says, smirking, unfazed by her threats. He leans in close, daring her to start something. “Or anyone’s if the rumors are true. Tell me, did you really make Zagurski cry after only one drift session?”

Sylvie feels her cheeks grow hot and clenches her fists, feeling her nails bite into the skin of her palms. “Shut up. That was an accident and a one-time fluke. I just haven’t found the right partner yet.”

“Yeah, right. Can’t find what doesn’t exist.” Yegorov says, laughing again. “You might as well face it now, you’re a winter without snow, Mansen. Driftless. You should drop out and try to save a little bit of your dignity; save them the trouble of booting you.”

She actually is going to punch him this time, but the door to the conference room opens before she can do anything. One of the supervising committee officers steps out. “Cadet Mansen, we’re ready for—” She cuts off when she sees the situation between the two cadets. “Is there a problem out here?”

Yegorov snaps off a salute to go with his insufferable smirk. “No ma’am,” he says, grinning. “Just giving Mansen some helpful advice.”

The officer gives him a very flat look, well acquainted Yegorov’s idea of ‘help.’ “Doesn’t seem like she finds it very helpful, Cadet. You’re done here. Get back to the quad. If you’re still out here when we get done, you’re getting demerits.”

Yegorov shrugs, but turns and starts to saunter down the hallway. As he starts to turn the corner he calls out over his shoulder, “Think about it, Mansen!”

When he finally turns out of sight, the officer turns to Sylvie, looking sympathetic. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Sylvie says, gritting her teeth as she tries to get her emotions under control. She wants to face whatever’s coming calmly, not brimming with the emotional mess that she’s feeling now of anger at Yegorov, embarrassment at being caught about to start a fight, and the returning worry over why she’s been called. “It’s nothing new.”

The woman nods, shooting an annoyed glance down the hall. “Yeah, unfortunately, I’m aware of that too. That kid’s gonna get his ass kicked one of these days and I’m sure as hell not going to be in a hurry to stop it. As I said though, the committee is ready for you now.” She opens the door, ushering Sylvie into the conference room.

Sylvie stops in the center of the room and salutes. “Cadet Sylvia Mansen, answering summons.”

The commander is the one to address her. “Cadet Mansen, you have been called before this committee today to discuss your future here in the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps and where your strengths will be best utilized. I am here to inform you that you are being promoted from Cadet.”

Sylvie blinks. That wasn’t at all what she was expecting to hear. “Sir…” she asks slowly. “Are you saying that you’re graduating me?”

There’s a mix of expressions that cross the committee at her words, from uncomfortable to guilty to pitying. The commander shakes his head slowly, his tone serious. “No. It has been decided that you are to be reassigned, Cadet Mansen. You will not be continuing any further in the piloting program.”

There’s a lurch in the pit of her stomach, as though the floor has dropped out from under her.  _No… Yegorov was right?_ “Please, sir,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s begging. “Please, please, reconsider. You can’t kick me out! My… my simulator scores are exemplary and I’m one of the highest ranked trainees in combat skills! I’ve earned top marks in all of my instructive classes!”

He holds up a hand and she fell silent. “We are aware of your qualifications, Cadet. However, there is more to this program than classes and combat, as you well know. Important as those elements of your training are, there is a mental aspect to piloting that cannot be ignored.

“Your record shows that you were warned of possible complications when your cognitive aptitude test suggested extremely low levels of interpersonal empathy. After multiple drift attempts with other cadets, you have only achieved a neural bridge once, and the results of that bridge left both you and Cadet Zagurski inoperative for the better part of an hour.”

Sylvie winces, remembering the experience. After being unable to make the connection for so long, she’d thought she could force her way into the drift through sheer willpower alone. She had managed to bridge the gap but Sylvie clawing her way tooth and nail into Zagurski’s mind had brought both of them to the brink of mental trauma, only narrowly avoided by the drift technicians shutting down the operation.

“Sir, I know that I messed that one up,” Sylvie says earnestly, holding her hands out open before her in a pleading manner. “And I feel awful about what happened with Zagurski, but, please, you have to give me another chance! I know what I did wrong now and I swear it won’t happen again. I’ll stay focused next time and I won’t go out of sync.”

The commander shakes his head once, cutting her off again. “There will be no next time, Cadet Mansen. Drift compatibility is not something that can be forced or taught. It requires a specific neurotype, which unfortunately, through no fault of your own, you do not possess. Allowing you to continue in the program would be unfair to you, only delaying the inevitable, and it could possibly result in further harm to you and your fellow cadets. This is for your own good, and this choice was made with your safety and that of the other trainees in mind. The committee’s decision is final. You will no longer be a member of the piloting program, Cadet Mansen.”

Sylvie has to force down the tears that threaten to rise to her eyes as he speaks. She can hear the resolve in his words, the weight of a conclusion which cannot be changed. The other officers and instructors regard her with sympathy.  _No_ , she thinks bitterly, mentally correcting herself.  _That’s not sympathy. It’s pity._

“Sir,” she says, hating the small catch that snags her voice on the word. She  _will_   _not_ cry in front of superior officers. She will  _not_. “What happens to me now?”

He actually gives her a small smile, and his voice is kind when he responds. “As stated before, you are being reassigned. Your great aptitude in piloting simulations and your university training in software design and programming before joining the PPDC makes you a valuable asset. From now on, you will be working in the Information Technology division of J-Tech, designing Jaeger simulations. The committee believes you are uniquely suited to this position and that it will be the best use of your skills.”

Sylvie just nods solemnly, not trusting herself to speak again.  _J-Tech? Designing simulations?_ It seems like a cruel joke, them assigning her to help others make it through the program that she herself failed.

“This new assignment comes with a promotion to J-Tech Officer, effective immediately,” he continues. “You are being given three days of leave to gather your things and prepare for your new position, at which point you are to report to your new superior officer. Your new rank will also entitle you to a raise in pay. Congratulations, J-Tech Officer Mansen.”

She wonders how he can try to make something so devastating sound like a good thing. Does he think it fools anyone? They can change her rank and make it sound like a simple reassignment, but deep down everyone in the room knows the same thing: she failed and they’re kicking her out, off to some dark corner of J-Tech to tap at a keyboard all day and pretend it’s just as worthwhile as becoming a pilot.

“Thank you, Commander,” Sylvie says quietly, voice barely controlled. “Permission to be dismissed, sir?”

He nods once. “Granted. Get some rest and enjoy your leave, Officer.”

Sylvie ducks her head as she makes for the door, trying to hide the tears that have started to form in her eyes. When she reaches the hallway she blinks them free, letting them flow once she’s alone. Not sure what else to do, she heads for her quarters, hoping she’ll be alone while she packs her things.

As she walks down the hall, she suddenly wishes she’d punched Yegorov when she had the chance, if only to have something worthwhile to remember about this awful day.

 

 

 


	3. Seiko and Miranda Backstory: First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was written by Ellie (swamp-spirit.tumblr.com) and Emma (lunarubato.tumblr.com)

**December 9, 2019**

Waking up, Seiko finds himself bound, stitched up, and, if he is not mistaken, three guns and a knife lighter. On the bright side, he looks to be in the same shitty apartment he stumbled into and not some sort of interrogation room. Nonetheless, he lets loose a long stream of profanity, jumping frantically between languages. The struggle takes more out of him than he expected it to.

Miranda pauses in her attempt at washing dishes, listening to the fuss being kicked up in the living room.  _Sounds like he’s awake_ , she thinks with a sigh. She rinses off the last of the soap and peeks out into the next room, still drying her hands with a dish rag.

As soon as he sees the stranger, Seiko snaps to calm. “This will go much faster,” he says evenly, “if you tell me what you want. I don’t have much in the way of money, but I have information, if that’s what you’re after.”

Miranda raises a hand to silence him. “Information might be interesting, but what I really want is to know what you’re doing in my apartment.”

Seiko shrugs as well as he can through his restraints. “Mostly, it was close.”

She stops fiddling with the towel and tosses it nonchalantly into the kitchen. It hits the corner of the counter before falling unceremoniously to the floor.  _So smooth_ , Miranda thinks. She’s grateful that the counter can’t be seen from the couch.

"Close to whatever shot you, I assume," she says as she enters the living room proper. "You’re welcome, by the way. So this was all a coincidence? This has nothing to do with me?"

Seiko meets her gaze. “Are you important?”

"Depends on who you ask; I happen to think I’m very important, on grounds of _being_  me.”

"And I happen to agree, on the grounds of being tied to your couch and weaponless."

"Not that that was easy, mind you." Mranda eases herself into a nearby chair, keeping her eyes fixed on her prisoner. "And why, may I ask, do you have three guns, a knife, and what I’m assuming is a suicide pill, Mister…?" She gestures leadingly with her hand.

"Sw-" he looks indecisive for a moment. "Watanabe. Seiko Watanabe. I believe my possessions are hardly subtle in their purpose. You seem smart. Take a guess."

"Fair enough," she concedes with a tilt of her head. "And who is it that you work for, Mr. Watanabe?"

"Nobody, at the moment. I work…” He hesitates, searching for the right word. “Freelance. And I seem to have just finished my current job."

"Well then, you should be able to tell me who you were after and who it was for."

"I am afraid my clients prefer to keep confidential."

"Alright then, target."

"I’m afraid  _all_  elements of my work are confidential.”

Miranda sighs in exasperation. “Can you at least tell me the nature of the target? Police, military, civilian, criminal?” She pulls out her phone, typing something quickly before fixing her eyes back on him.

"Most of my work tends to focus on the… slightly less legal aspect of our society." He pauses briefly. "And there is rarely reason to target civilians."

Miranda opens her mouth to respond, but her phone buzzes. She glances down, reading the text quickly. She tucks the phone back into her pocket as she speaks. “Donovan Spitzer, age 39, suspected drug cartel with three priors. Ringing any bells?”

Seiko tilts his head slightly, his voice tinged with vague amusement. “Is he feeling poorly then?”

Miranda raises an eyebrow at that. She’s not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed, but she supposes that answers her question. “And about your _completely_  unrelated job,” she continues deliberately, letting his question hang, “did it go well, or should I be preparing for more ‘guests’?”

"No others; I am  _very_  good at what I do.” He offers a smile with too many teeth. “You can be back to a quiet home as soon as you untie me.”

"I doubt that’s a good idea,” Miranda says with an incredulous stare. “Even if I trusted you not to try and kill me when I untie you, which I’m still not sure I do, you’ve lost a lot of blood. I did what I could, but I’m no medic; those stitches will come loose if you move too much."

"Lived through worse," Seiko mutters, but the bravado has faded from his voice. He sounds almost petulant.

"So have I, doesn’t mean I’m not right." She stands carefully, moving to perch on the edge of the coffee table and leaning forward. "Mr. Watanabe, I worked a ten hour shift tonight before coming home to find you bleeding all over my bathroom floor. It is now 3 AM; I am tired and frustrated and confused and do not have the energy to deal with this right now, so here’s what’s going to happen. I am keeping you here for the night. That is not negotiable; I can’t let you leave in good conscience. I am going to bring you some food, you are going to eat that food, we are both going to go to sleep, and tomorrow we’ll see just how messy your torso looks in the daylight."

Seiko glares at her for a few more moments before letting his shoulders go slack. “Sounds reasonable.”

Miranda lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Good,” She pats his arm gently as she stands. “Any preference on food?” she chirps, returning to the kitchen. “Your choices are… turkey and cheese sandwich, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or instant noodles.”

"Instant noodles. It’s what I usually eat."

A few minutes later she returns with two bowls, setting them on the coffee table. “Fork or chopsticks?”

"Either." She rolls her eyes, handing him both utensils.

Once his hands are properly free Seiko attempts to eat. He holds both chopsticks in one hand, using them to shovel the noodles onto the fork before lifting them to his mouth. He’s able to manage a few bites like this before setting the bowl aside and falling back.

Miranda glances over from her seat on the chair, setting her own bowl down. “You alright?”

"You really do ask a good deal of stupid questions," he replies without lifting his head.

"Shut up, you know what I mean." She stands slowly, walking over to check him over.

Seiko props himself up on his elbows and watches her closely, willing himself not to flinch at her touch. “May I ask what kind of information you might be looking for?”

"Depends on what you’ve got…" she curses a bit, reaching under the coffee table and pulling out a first aid kit. She gently peels off his bandage, which he had bled through, and inspects the wound closely. "I suppose I’m a bit of a freelancer myself, although I’m sure my boss wouldn’t be happy to hear that."

"Since you don’t know me, I doubt you’re much interested in underworld gossip.” He hisses slightly as Miranda dabs on a bit of antiseptic. “What is it then? A vendetta? A missing friend?"

Reaching back over to the table, she presses a clean bandage firmly into his side. “A threat and a promise,” she says quietly, her hands lingering on the bandage. “I design weapons.” Her eyes widen a bit as she realizes how that sounds. “For killing kaiju, not people. J-Tech. Taking down something that big isn’t easy, and I like to be sure that I have as many resources as possible for the task.”

Seiko meets her eyes, a grin slowly creeping over his face. “I can respect that a lot more than my usual employers’ reasoning.”

Miranda returns the smile as she moves her hands to rest on the table. To her surprise, the expression feels remarkably genuine. “Glad to hear it. Maybe we can work something out after all.”

"I can look into getting some information on weapons I’ve seen around the underworld,” he offers. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in kaiju related medical discoveries as well. That is more of my information specialty."

"Of cour-" Miranda catches herself, coughing into her hand in an attempt to mask her excitement. "Actually that sort of thing would interest me, if you happen to have any." When faced with Seiko’s stare, she adds, "Fixing the damage those monsters cause is important."

Seiko sees the excitement and tries to cover his confusion. She’s walking, so she can’t know what it’s really like. “I have access to a number of… off brand treatments and their current known success stats, and could get you the more technical aspects of a new laser system within a week.”

"I… yeah, that’d be great." She lets out a small laugh, too stunned to care about hiding her reactions anymore. "Thank you, Mis-" She shakes her head. "Thanks, Seiko."

He nods. “And may I have your name as well?”

“Oh,” she sputters. She had forgotten that she hadn’t told him. “Miranda, Miranda Cross.”

"Well Ms. Cross, sleep well.” Seiko carefully lowers himself down until he’s lying flat on his back. “Thank you for the stitches. Your work is excellent, somebody must have taught you well."

Her grip on the coffee table tightens for a fraction of a second. “It’s nothing, really. Live long enough and you start to pick things up.” Miranda stands quickly, heading towards the bedroom.

She hesitates at the door, weighing her options before turning back to look at him. “This may be a bit sudden, but I’m just gonna throw it out there. As luxurious as my home no doubt appears, I’m not a wealthy woman. I can’t give you money for your info, but I  _can_  give you off-the-record medical care and a place to stay.” Her hand taps nervously against the doorframe. “Something to think about,” she mutters. With that, she steps into her room and closes the door.

 

 

 


	4. Seiko and Miranda Backstory: Roommates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude comic was written by Ellie (swamp-spirit.tumblr.com) and Emma (lunarubato.tumblr.com), and was drawn by Ellie!

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
